


'the convergence of the twain'

by je_t_oublie



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who: Eighth Doctor Adventures - Various Authors
Genre: Fitz's POV, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-consensual drug use not in relation to the sex, Panic Attack, Smoking, how Fitz left the TARDIS, self-internalised homophobia, that is completely consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22750969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/je_t_oublie/pseuds/je_t_oublie
Summary: "Oh, well, that was fine, Fitz thought and let his head fall back down on the floor with a grimace.Wait.Fire.That was not fine. Most definitely not fine, even if it was just another day in the life of Fitz Kreiner."
Relationships: Eighth Doctor/Fitz Kreiner
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	'the convergence of the twain'

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this is the title of a Thomas Hardy poem, The Convergence of the Twain, about the Titanic. An inevitable disaster rings true for Fitz and Eight.

The stench brought Fitz around, and he couldn’t even hear himself groan at the pain that radiated through his head, and the press of the cold TARDIS floor against his tender cheek. And if he was down here... where was the Doctor? He wrenched his unwilling eyes open, struggling against the desire to just keep them closed and sink in the dangerous but welcoming waves of a possible concussion. It took a few moments for the view to stabilise, and that could’ve been the bang to his noggin, or the plunging TARDIS piloted by the whirling outline of a delicate figure against showering sparks and the backglow of fire. Oh, well, that was fine, Fitz thought and let his head fall back down on the floor with a grimace.  
Wait.  
Fire.  
That was not fine. Most definitely not fine, even if it was just another day in the life of Fitz Kreiner. 

Resisting the urge to either just stay there and cry, or light a cigarette in the fatalistic effort (which hadn’t even been the thing to kill him the first coupla’ times, he’d like to point out,) he pulled his long limbs together to push away from the floor and past the nausea of head injury and bucking TARDIS and oh god, he just couldn’t get a break. He staggered over to the console, using half filled bookshelves and the back of armchairs as anchors before he could reach the Doctor, and he nearly gagged at the smell, wanted to throw up even more than the motion sickness had made him. Burning plastic and hot metal, scorched clothing and burnt books, and something so sharply pungent his eyes watered, and made it difficult to discern details until with one final shudder the TARDIS broke free of whatever had clung to her (Fitz was betting Daleks, it was one of those days. Nights... One of those timeless periods in the TARDIS while time flexed and changed outside as the Time Lords and Daleks warred. Hell, it had been one of those days for a hellishly long period of indeterminate times. He almost missed the flower shop. Almost.) 

But it was still now, the only movement in flickering fire that the TARDIS, if she was feeling up to it, would deal with any moment now, and Fitz’s still swaying view. The Doctor was still bent over the console, eyes screwed shut as if to deny reality, one arm of his green velvet blackened, and his breathing faster than it should’ve been even with the exertion. Fitz relinquished his hold of the console to only one hand, and the other wavered it’s way to the Doctor’s back, to press firmly between shoulder-blades, sweep down to his waist and back up again in repetitive strokes until the Doctor’s breathing slowed to match, until Fitz could no longer feel the tension and trembling. Then he kept it up for a little longer. Hey, he’s not gonna judge a guy for having a panic attack after the action (he’s had enough of his own, thanks) but the firmness of the strokes were reassuring to him, too. Not that the Doctor needed to know that, but, well... they and the TARDIS were pretty much the only ones who had each other’s backs right about now. He was pretty sure the Doctor knew. 

“Where are we now?” Fitz rasped, fingers now spread still between the Doctor’s shoulder-blades so he felt each creak as the Doctor straightened, as he unclenched his hands from the TARDIS controls, brushing over them conciliatory fingers, and shook his head. 

“Nowhere,” he replied, his own normally rich voice as rasped as Fitz’s, but without the excuse of a decade of smoking. “Somewhere in vortex. A little bit of quiet while we can.” Following the slightest pressure of Fitz’s hand, the Doctor fell into his chest, a cool breath gusting over his heart where the Doctor’s head lay, and Fitz allowed his head to droop like it had wanted to since before his eyes had even opened. There was usually a comforting smell to the Doctor, honey and tea and the TARDIS air (and even on occasion, the bitter smoke from a sneaky cigarette when they had spent time reading on the same couch,) but this made Fitz cough, that unidentifiable and achingly sharp smell clinging to the Doctor and choking him. He reached up the hand that had been on the Doctor’s back to try and thread it through the long curls, to get whatever had leaked in there out before the Doctor and his vanity noticed. Their was a roughness against Fitz’s calluses he hadn’t felt before in the Doctor’s hair, and the curls came away between his fingers. 

“Shit!” Fitz spluttered, and shook his hand out, trying to get rid of the clinging hairs, the ashes catching under his nails and darkening his fingers worse than the nicotine stains. 

“It was the fire,” said the quiet voice from his chest. Arms came up, slipping up under Fitz’s coat to curl around his waist and to lean more heavily against Fitz. His fingers on the TARDIS console tightened to keep them both balanced. The quiet voice continued to rasp, cool breath a counterpoint to Fitz’s too warm body after the panic, and to be fair, he probably didn’t smell too swell either. 

“There wasn’t time to put it out unless I wanted them to catch up with us. Being wiped out from time, or losing a few curls? I’ll survive.” The implied “you wouldn’t have” wrapped around Fitz’s lungs, choked him as effortlessly as the stench of burnt hair. He more carefully reached up, and brushed his too-big, too rough hand against the Doctor’s delicate hair, prepared this time for the chunks to come away in his hand until one side of the Doctor’s head was down to a stubble, a few weeks of not shaving for Fitz, but god knows how long it would take for those curls to return? (Would they both be alive for long enough for those curls to return?) 

“Want me to gel it up and see if we can make a mohawk?” he wobblingly joked, and the Doctor just let out one of those long gusts against his chest in response. 

“Nah, you’re right. It wouldn’t go with the coat.” he started to trying to sidle out of the arms around his waist, his desire to comfort the Doctor tipping in strength with the ‘not okay- men don’t touch for that long – time to let go Fitz-’ panic that was getting too close to the surface with his broken head and broken Doctor taking up more brainpower than they usually did between their chaotic and adrenaline shaking adventures. There was a tight clasp in resistance before the Doctor seemed to register the too-fast heart beating against his cheek and relented, sliding away with a puff of hair fragments fluttering off his shoulders. The couple of steps back that Fitz took were definitely not retreat, just a better angle to see the damage from. 

“D’you want me to, I dunno, cut the other side? To make it even, I mean.” He fumbled his fingers into his coat pocket, seeking out the battered cigarette box and lighter. Anji had taught him, sat him down once and berated him for twenty minutes while cutting his shaggy hair in front of a mirror while he waited for a break to flirt about how she had just wanted her hands all over him. He hadn’t got that chance. (The flirting, or Anji taking pity on him.) Trix had pretended to despair over it, but the pat she given him before leaving for greener pastures was fond. 

Not even waiting for his excuses about why Fitz would know how, the Doctor nodded, his half head of hair bouncing almost comically, and Fitz almost smiled. Lots of almosts around the TARDIS these days. 

“I just gotta-” he waved his lighter clumsily, a cigarette already clenched between his fingers. “And you should probably take a bath. Get rid of... the rest of it.” And the smoke, the smears, the tired and gritty veneer that was lying over his once bright features. 

“An hour, in the kitchen?” The Doctor offered. “I’ll have a cup of tea for us both.” 

Fitz nodded, regretting it immediately as the world swum around him, and sidled off to his bedroom where the Doctor wouldn’t look at him sadly when he smoked, and he could wash off his own panic sweat and exhaustion with the hot water. And waste at least one cigarette by trying to smoke while actually in the shower, but no one needed to know about that particular failure. 

\--  
It wasn’t the worst Fitz had ever seen, a hell of a lot cleaner and smelling of some kind of fruity shampoo rather than sharp smoke. Better than half the guy’s haircuts in the pubs he had played at (not that he had been looking.) He brushed some of the stray hairs off the Doctor’s lax shoulders, and he jerked into awareness, eyes opening and sitting up from his slump against the sturdy kitchen chair. 

“I beg your pardon?” The Doctor shook his head, the planes of his neck and curl of his jaw, usually concealed under his curls, were bare and he reached up thin fingers to brush mournfully through what was left. 

“Oh, thank you Fitz.” He leaned back in the chair, the back of his head pressing against Fitz’s soft stomach, and he would’ve stepped back had he not wanted the Doctor’s soft smile to turn sad, or for him to hit his head on the chair and forget he had even burnt half his hair off. That’d be just their luck.

“S’fine. You’ve even still got a coupla’ curls left.” he sketched them out on his own forehead, and the smile brightened up at him. The short bristles of his hair pressed through Fitz’s faded and over-washed shirt, itchy and uncomfortable and still alive. One more scuffle with the Daleks and they were both still alive and Fitz bent down, folding uncomfortably in two and his neck awkwardly twisted to press his lips against the Doctor’s smile, his nose pressing against the Doctor’s smooth chin and this felt far more awkward than he had imagined- not imagined, because who thought about kissing the Doctor? Not him- and after all, the Doctor had started it, kissing Fitz several lifetimes ago and confusing him since. 

“Fitz,’ The Doctor breathed into his lips, chin bumping into Fitz’s nose and he retreated upwards, fingers clenched around the top of the chair to stop himself from touching the Doctor any more than he already had. The soft look followed him, eyes half closed, lips parted and cool head still pressed against his stomach. 

“I didn’t mean-” Fitz stuttered. “You did it last time. Uh, several times ago.”

And the soft look crumpled slightly, even upside down Fitz could clearly see the weariness and sadness wash back across his face and immediately felt guilty. 

“It’s okay.” The Doctor’s voice was kind, even as the ancient blue of his eyes were sad. “Human’s need connections, and it’s been awhile since you travelled with anyone but me. Not much time to stop during a war.” 

Fitz’s breath left in a rush, recognising the well-worn overture to the Doctor trying to persuade him he would be safer elsewhere, a chorus overplayed between each verse of their adventures. “I’m not going home.”

The Doctor lifted his head, facing away from Fitz towards the line of kitchen cupboards, the dregs of cold tea in elegant cups on the table in front of them. Fitz missed the comforting pressure against his stomach. 

“It’s not good for you to be alone for so long with just me.” 

“Doctor-” Fitz rebutted, and didn’t even get to start up his usual series of points before the Doctor sighed and relented. 

“I know, Fitz. I’m just... tired.”

“You and me both.” he unclenched his fingers from the chair to brush them over the Doctor’s shoulders. There was quiet, a moment of their shared exhaustion of weeks-years-decades-unwritten-and-rewritten-time weighing on the two.

“Keep me company?” the Doctor asked, voice almost smothered under the quiet and exhaustion blanketing them both, and Fitz nodded, knowing the rustle of cloth would be enough of an answer for the Doctor’s sharper ears. They’d started this awhile ago, a brush with death closer than normal and in separate cells, not knowing whether the other was still alive, and neither had wanted to replace their enforced separation even with a voluntary one back on the TARDIS. Too tired to be embarrassed and too sick feeling to spend the night chainsmoking, Fitz had followed the Doctor back to his room and into his bed, falling asleep before the Doctor had even pulled the covers over them both.  
Fitz stopped off at his own room to change out of his jeans and into soft sleep pants, an old band tshirt comfortable enough to sleep in and smoked a couple of cigarettes while he avoided thinking about sharing a bed, or the death they were still only just outpacing, and instead moaned to himself about the mess they’d have to clean up in the console room the next day, books all over the floor and at least one of the Doctor’s hoarded teapots that he left half full and hidden. Sanity reclaimed (and he immediately avoided thinking that, remembering his mum,) he loped off to the Doctor’s room, the TARDIS being kind enough to not make it a long enough walk for him to chicken out of. 

There was only a lone candle shining beside the bed when he knocked quietly on the door, and opened it. A lump under the duvets indicated the Doctor, and Fitz laid a gentle hand on it before he slid under the other side, careful to keep to his side and away from the Doctor. Nothing wrong with sharing a bed with his friend after all. He propped himself up on one elbow to blow out the candle, then lay on his side to face the indistinct lump of his friend under the duvets. 

“Fitz?”

Well, no sleeping yet. “Mhm?”

A hand snaked out from one side of the bed and landed, after a little patting around, on Fitz’s cheek, cool despite how warm the duvets were keeping them. 

“Thank you.”

Lips followed the hand, the only warning a rustling of blankets in the darkness and Fitz suppressed a sigh, allowing himself a press of dry lips back against the Doctors. Give the man an inch- or kiss him in the kitchen- and he’ll think that’s just how to say thank you now, irregardless of giving his companions heart attacks. He drew back enough that he couldn’t feel the breath against his lips (and god, it had been too long since the last girl Fitz had met in a bar if he was allowing this?)

“I told you Doctor, s’fine. You don’t have to-” and Fitz stopped talking because the lips were on his again, nose brushing his and the few remaining curls he had carefully left tickling his forehead and this was not a friendly thank you kiss anymore. He opened his mouth to ask the Doctor what he thought he was doing, and oh. It hadn’t been an invitation, but nor was it... bad. Even if he was sober. His fingers flexed on the sheets before reaching for the Doctor’s hip, an anchor in this sudden insanity. He pulled away, breath coming too fast and leant his forehead against the Doctor because they were friends, and maybe the Doctor didn’t realise (and Fitz knew he did, because he remembered all the Doctor couldn’t for him.)

“I’m not a queer.”

“A very human concept, Fitz.” The Doctor shifted, forehead rolling against Fitzs’, his newly short hair rough and making quiet scratching noises on the pillow he had commandeered for them to share in the quiet of the bedroom. He had pulled his hands away from Fitz’s face, curling them under his chin, Fitz guessed, having seen the Doctor asleep enough to recognise the dimmed shapes, but he felt the loss keenly even while still close enough to feel the Doctor’s breath, to smell the faint honey and tea that trailed him. The Doctor’s voice became contemplative. “In your era it was still taboo, but even fifty years later people all over the world were allowed to marry irregardless of gender. A huge sweep of biographies were published, highlighting the historical relationships that had been concealed. Books of poetry hidden in family vaults.” There was a pause, Fitz holding his breath. “Had you stayed in 1963, you would have lived to see it. At least, without those cigarettes.” 

He wasn’t speaking from an impersonal historical viewpoint, an alien about his favourite planet. Fitz swallowed hard, and his fingers itched for a cigarette, twitching aimlessly where they still laid against the Doctor’s hip, too close. A hundred years alone on Earth before they had been reunited. 

“When you were on earth-” he trailed off, unsure of the etiquette without a pint in his hand and a few whiskies down already, but a wavering courage in the darkness that stopped him from turning his back and going to sleep, or storming back off to his own room. 

“Yes.” The Doctor confirmed, matter of factly. 

Oh. And there was an image Fitz had only half considered before. He’d looked, but that was different from knowing. The Doctor thought it was okay. Had looked too, judging by that more than friendly kiss. If they had both looked, it didn’t matter if he wasn’t, well, a bird if Fitz closed his eyes. And really, it’d been leading to this since everyone else left and it was just them in the middle of a war.  
“Right. Okay.” Fitz leant back to tilt his head, and tried to keep his sharp elbows from stabbing either of them. The glint of the Doctor’s eyes were the only clue that he had turned them back up to meet Fitz, and Fitz closed his own as he lowered his mouth over the Doctors, nose brushing against the Doctor’s cheek. Hands crept around his ribs, brushing down to rest over his hips where his tshirt was riding up, but Fitz was distracted by the coolness of the lips on his, the strong jaw under his fingers and the ever present familiar smell of the Doctor. This was Fitz and his oldest friend’s moment, thank you very much, and he turned off any higher thought.

\--

There was no windows to let in gently shifting sunlight to burn into his eyes on the TARDIS, nor birds to chirp sweetly and for him to curse at as he struggled into consciousness. The only indication of the length he’d slept was the empty bed beside him, the Doctor’s shirt and trousers missing but a pair of his own beaten up jeans and a rumpled but clean button up folded on the armchair beside the bed. Fitz flushed when he noticed the fold of underwear peeking out from under the shirt, but well, the Doctor had already seen what went inside. A couple of times. He stretched, elbows and back and several other things that didn’t used to crack making sound sticks snapping. He was still tired, and considered burying his face in the pillows for another nap, but if he did that then he would sleep several days away, and who knew what kind of trouble they’d get into while he was out of it, and he did not need Daleks busting in on him while he was naked. 

Fitz struggled his way out of the Doctor’s overly complicated duvet system, leaving a pile behind him before trying to pull on his clothing without tripping over himself, or elbowing any precariously balanced piles of books. He patted the pockets of the jeans, and ah-hah, thank you. He slid a cigarette out of the box and fumbled with the matchbook the Doctor always slipped into his pockets after borrowing and losing his Zippos, careful to shake out the match before leaving it in a stray teacup and taking in a long draft of nicotine. Shoes and socks from his room, then maybe he could face the mess of the console room.

The smell of smoke still lingered slightly, but the books were back in their shelves. Fitz stared at the carefully placed rows, battered and some a little ashy but off the floor. Well shit, that was nice. As was the smell of fresh tea, creeping in over the smoke. He followed the trail to the console, where a still steaming cup sat by an empty one, which explained where the Doctor had disappeared to. If he’d got up to make a cup of tea, then he’d probably gotten distracted and forgotten he’d left Fitz in his bed. He probably wasn’t the kind of guy to know the one-night stand etiquette, too classy despite his awful jokes. But Fitz wasn’t one to look a gift-horse in the mouth (or at least not in this exact moment) and if they were still in the vortex, the Doctor couldn’t be getting himself into too much trouble. 

He called out a “Ta,” into the cavernous console room, and listened out for a reply but only got the rushing and comfortable sound of the TARDIS in the vortex back. Shrugging, he snagged the full tea cup and made for one of the Doctor’s more comfortable armchairs, leaning back with a fresh cigarette while the tea cooled. Of all the things out to kill him, cigarette’s really didn’t have the time for it. The tea was delicious, actually properly brewed, Fitz was guessing, rather than the teabags he usually just dumped in a mug of boiled water while the Doctor stared at him in horror. Speaking of staring in horror, it’d be quite a while before he got used to that rough short hair. It made the usually naive and soft appearing (appearing only, mind? he could be a right bastard when he wanted to) Doctor look... well, hard. And if that wasn’t worth a snigger, what was? He indulged himself, and then drained the rest of the tea, letting the caffeine sink in before he stood to look for the Doctor. 

Went to stand to look for the Doctor. His legs were uncooperative on occasion, sure, too long and tripping him up, but they weren’t moving at all now. Was this a stroke? Had the cigarettes finally caught up with him? He tried to open his mouth to call for the Doctor, but his tongue was heavy and still in his mouth. A shadow pulled away from the dark and Fitz began to panic in earnest, his desire to struggle not translating to actual movement even as adrenaline was thundering through his veins with nowhere to go. 

“I’m sorry about that, Fitz.” 

Did he forget to mention bastard earlier? He wanted to ask what was going on, why. Had having sex with Fitz finally sent him around the bend? This wasn’t the time to compliment himself, but well, he rather thought that they had both enjoyed it. Had the last couple of days been a particularly mundane drug trip now going bad? It was probably better for Fitz's pride that none of these questions could actually make it out, but the Doctor was coming closer now, eyes shining unnaturally under his choppy fringe. He picked the still burning cigarette out from between Fitz’s fingers, and from the quiet hiss, had dropped it in the dregs of the tea he had left for Fitz. The tea, god damn the Doctor. Sodding bloody idiot. 

Seemingly unaware of Fitz’s internal raging, the Doctor pulled around one of the closer armchairs to face him, face resigned, but fingers rubbing nervously at the cuffs of his battered velvet coat. Fitz wanted to yell at him to get on with it, but the Doctor refused to even meet his eyes, looking past him at the ceiling, or the console, Fitz didn’t really care. His hands were dangling off the arms, he could see them in the periphery, but it felt like there was nothing there, like they’d been frozen off, replaced with something that wasn’t truly alive... Focus, Kreiner. He really didn’t need this kind of panicking when there was nothing his body could do to keep up with his mind and god, he had never been so angry at the Doctor. He couldn’t really imagine what the whole Faction Paradox thing was like, but that Fitz probably hadn’t been drugged by the guy he’d just slept with. His heart should’ve been thundering in his ears, but the rush was solely in his mind, and he could barely hear over it when the Doctor began to finally speak. 

“-getting too dangerous, and you’ve already been through too much because of me.”

And he was looking at him now, blue eyes too big without his normal curls pulling attention away, and what was just shininess had developed into wetness, and was he crying? Fitz may’ve been a good shag, but he was not worth crying over, and even through his rage, through something he hadn’t felt this strongly before, he still wanted to reach out and sling an arm around him, make him stop crying because that was not what they did. The Doctor had stopped, left him a gap to speak as if he could, thanks Doctor. Oh god, those really were tears. Please stop. 

“Oh, but there’s so much for you on earth. You’re going to love the music in the seventies, but maybe not the platform shoes.” 

Earth? Seventies? Absolutely bloody not. He didn’t want to comfort the Doctor now, Fitz wanted to deck the bastard. The tears were still running down the Doctor’s cheeks, but he was ignoring them, fingers still twisted in the velvet of his coat sleeves. What was the Doctor meant to do without him? What was Fitz meant to do without the Doctor? Fitz could feel his own eyes welling up, burning, and he wanted desperately to duck his head, let his fringe fall over his eyes so no one else would see but there was nothing he could do. Idiots, the both of them. The Doctor stood, moving out of his view, and Fitz heard tapping behind him, the rustle of cloth and the sudden grating, groan of materialization. He didn’t want to go back to Earth, had told the Doctor that much a dozen times but the idiot wouldn’t listen when he thought something was for the best. He never did, and Fitz normally put it with it or found other’s frustration with it amusing, but he had thought the Doctor was past doing this to him. Nothing was for the best if it lead the Doctor off without someone to look after him. 

There was another rustle behind him, and the Doctor was in front of him again, in only his shirtsleeves and his stupid waistcoat, tears gone but for the slight redness around his eyes, and he lifted a slightly damp handkerchief to wipe at Fitz’s cheeks. He wasn’t a kid, dammit Doctor, but the fingers were gentle and he wanted to clutch at them, to beg not to have to go. But he had no hands with which to grasp, no lips to plead. The Doctor slipped out of his view again, and a slightly charred smell was surrounding him, underlying tea and honey in the cool smoothness of the lining of the Doctor’s stupid jacket around him. The Doctor was pulling his arms now, feeding them into the sleeves and if Fitz could’ve felt anything, he knew it would’ve gentle. He could see his wrists sticking out of the too-short sleeves as the Doctor placed them on his lap, nattering about the clothing of the seventies and Fitz knew that the Doctor knew Fitz didn’t give a single damn about the seventies. He wanted a cigarette, his own jacket, not to goddamn leave the idiot alone. The middle of a time war was no place for the self-sacrificing bastard, they’d lived through something like this before, and he had needed Fitz. 

There was a shoulder under his arm now, lifting him with the always surprising strength in the frail looking body, and Fitz’s head lolled over the short bristles of hair he had run his fingers through the night-day-indeterminate time before. The console room spiralled around him, and the Doctor couldn’t have even made this better by putting a fun drug in his tea? 

The doors opened before the Doctor had made it all the way there, and Fitz thought the TARDIS had liked him more than that, and he sent a pleading wave her way, felt sympathy, and began to feel the rasp of his feet against the floor but they still refused to obey him. The doors slammed closed, nearly on the Doctor’s nose, and Fitz felt a vindictive stab of pleasure. Someone wanted him to stay. 

“I need to- please.” The whisper was barely audible to Fitz, even draped over the Doctor but the doors swung slowly open again. Fitz was going to hold on to a shred of pride, and say that they opened with reluctance, but that didn’t make a difference when the Doctor was carefully maneuvering him through into the dull light of an overcast British day, and a building, square and with barbed wire, he didn’t recognise. He could feel the cool linen under his fingertips now, the rough hair under his cheek. There was no one around, no one to assume the short man dragging along his tall friend wasn’t just a buddy helping a drunk friend home. But there was a bench under a closed window, a small patch of grass and flowers littered with cigarette butts. Fitz wanted at least to say goodbye, not to be in the middle of nowhere with a coat that didn’t fit him and a life belonging to someone else. He didn’t want the Doctor to be positioning his scrawny limes like a puppet, an ignored and unselfconscious wetness back in his eyes. Fitz could feel it when the Doctor put a cool hand on his cheek, could almost pretend he had the control back to run to the TARDIS like he had so many times before, to not just fall flat on his face and have the Doctor’s last view of him as a crumpled heap on the floor. 

The soft, cool lips pressed his, a parody of the willingness of the dark night before, and the Doctor whispered against his lips, words he couldn’t make out. He leant back, took one long look at Fitz’s face and he felt himself being remembered, already being put in a place that was the Doctor’s past, and the lids closed over the bright blue, committing him. Fitz could think of someone else that needed committing and he would’ve been happy to tell the Doctor that. 

“I’ll give Romana your love. Oh, and mustn’t forget-” 

Sod Romana. But the Doctor was leaning over to rummage through the pocket of the coat Fitz was wearing, and came out with the familiar sonic screwdriver. Well, Fitz didn’t want it anyway. Not if it was going to help saving the idiot’s skin when Fitz wasn’t around to do it himself. The Doctor held it up, pressing it until faint buzzing started to emanate, and then a distant telephone rang in the building behind them jarring over the birdsong and Fitz’s heartbeat. The Doctor looked torn, clearly wanting to go before he had to put up with the mess (and he always avoided leaving before he had to clean up after himself, why would he make abandoning Fitz any different) but he bent to press one last kiss against his forehead and without permission, tears slid down Fitz’s cheeks. Buggering bastard. 

“There are friends here, I promise.” There was a groan from the TARDIS behind the Doctor, the beginning of dematerialization and he turned, head cocked towards her. “Best of luck, Fitz Fortune.” 

And he was gone, the TARDIS wheezing away and he walked into her and Fitz stopped pretending he could follow him, would have slumped had his muscles let him but there were men crashing out of the building behind him, fatigues and guns raised and if Fitz ever met the Doctor again, he wouldn’t have a time war to worry about because Fitz would murder him himself.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this for a couple of weeks, and am still not happy, but it's a matter of me being utterly sick of the sight of it. 
> 
> Come say hi at tumblr i-am-become-a-name, where I also go feral over Fitz a lot. (Making my way through and live-blogging those EDAs.)


End file.
